It took us a few minutes but eventually we found it. Practically buried underground we walked into the inviting, charming cellar that is the Bathtub Gin & Co. bar. Seated downstairs were three other women in the party. One was her visiting friend, the others were friends of hers both from Los Angeles at one point- one currently in the area and the other moved up North as my best had.

We took our place on a dark leather couch in front of a barrel to order our drinks. There would be cocktails. Jedi mind trick anyone?

“This all looks great but I love ordering off the menu.”

“Do you go to a lot of places down in Los Angeles?”

“I do. I could tell you some secrets.”

And that’s what we proceeded to do. We talked and shared our worlds… our very different overlapping worlds. Three of them worked in the medical field. Two in physical therapy. One in psychology. There was a comment made about a darker side of relationship therapy.

I looked over at my best friend. We were both in our own conversations at the time.

“Take a look at that ring!” one of the women exclaimed.

She’s getting married. I was happy for her. I’d always known it was going to happen but nothing had been said officially. When he moved up there with her that was a sure sign. However, despite talking nearly daily, she’d never mentioned it.

“Ahem. What the fuck I talk to you every damn day. How come you never told me?”

We laughed. I shrugged it off. The secrets kept pouring in.

“My ex husband..”

It was the theme of the evening. And then we all realized it.

“Wait wait are we all ex wives?”

It was true.

This was such a strange trip. Everything about it was surreal… just like this moment.

A new outfit fit for snobbery and a hankering for espresso brought me in that morning. Not because I needed it, but because I wanted it.

There are days when I simply haven’t put much effort into getting dressed. The office I work in has a very lax dress code policy. It seems that no one dresses up here. Dressing up has less appeal here. No one notices and we have so few walk in clients, it tends to get wasted on dry cold air.

On a rough day I will frequently take a few minutes and sneak outside for a break to people watch. Growing up, working downtown amongst the suited corporate elite was a dream. Now, the dream doesn’t exactly match the reality. It’s funny how that happens.

Most days when I go in I give a fake name. But something about that day was different. Something in the air made me reject the notion of yet another coffee ring with “Sylvie” “Abby” “Rin” or whatever acronym caught my fancy. It was a strange feeling of inner complacency. Maybe the therapy really is working.

“What’s the name on this?”

“Jen.”

While somedays it’s good to be someone else, damn does it feel good to be everyday.

“Can you just cuddle?” it said in an unidentified text message from an area code I didn’t recognize either.

“Who is this?” I texted back.

“Guess?”

I milled it over in my head. It’s been a strange week.

A strange month.

A strange.. everything.

But that’s what happens when you’re self evaluating. And while my brain was sifting through the memories trying to make sense of everything, this made even less sense. Who was this? I was both flattered and… annoyed.

“The truth is I know who I want this to be but you’re probably not said person.”

“Who?”

I was honest but I wasn’t going to be that honest. The unidentified stranger didn’t need to know who was on my mind. Hell- as I typed it I felt guilty. By all accounts, the person or persons I was referring to wasn’t anyone I probably should be wanting to text me asking for that. I knew better. Or I’d hoped I did.

An hour later I received a text with the answer. It was Mr. Midnight– a “Hemmingway” of a punk rock lover from my past circa a couple of summers ago. I didn’t respond.

“Is that bad?”

A pin dropped. I didn’t know what to say to that. It had been so long ago that it felt like another lifetime.

I posted to Facebook about it and referenced a few friends that remember some of those memories. I should have seen this one coming. A few weeks prior he had added me on Facebook again- albeit briefly. He deleted me a few days later after I asked him what brought him to reach out to me. It was about events that never happened.

It is written that April is a the cruelest month. Without divulging into those memories, I will just have to note that I was counting down the hours until May Day.

Growing up May Day was a special day shared with me and my grandmother. She would make baskets and get us flowers. It was a celebration. It was joy. It was for these reasons that I had to make a point to call her.

Work calmed down long enough to take a few minutes to talk. I used to call her more often. After certain events transpired this weekend, I felt the urge to start doing it again.

Grandma’s memories are still very much intact. She will tell you the most amazing stories but also tell you nothing about herself. She is secretive but sweet. Giving but guarded. Her memories are treasured.

“I wanted to call to tell you Happy May Day Gram.”

“You remembered?! No one remembers my baskets.”

I wanted to call my dad to tell her to make sure he called her too. I texted a nudge to my brother.

“Why do they do that anyway on May Day?”

“I really don’t know. I think it has something to do with the May pole. It started in Europe. We’ve been doing it ever since I was a kid. Maybe if you get on the internet you can find out and tell me.”

My grandmother is in her mid seventies. I fear that one day her memories will disappear as well. I know that she doesn’t reveal a lot about her own, but she is often quick to divulge quirky stories about other family members… like this one.

“Grandma what was it like when my dad was little?”

“Your dad was always business! At around Ethan’s age (my 10 year old son) he told me “I’m going to make my living with my pencil and my brain!”

I thought about talks I’ve had with another relative about dad. About how when I was a kid I thought he was the coolest guy ever. As I got older and saw dad turn into the super corporate Republican type even more so my opinion started to change.

“Your dad was never cool.” my cousin once told me.

“Your dad was always carrying around a pencil. He told me “Mom, I’m going to make a living with my pencil and my brain!””

The memory made me smile. She made me smile. She always… makes me smile. And even though it was her day, it was my day, and maybe, to a degree my dad’s day too.

Maybe my dad really always was a square and not this super cool guy I thought he was from my childhood. Maybe none of us geeks ever were. But at the same time, maybe, just maybe, we’re both.